Coffee Shop
by FloatingPizza
Summary: At the moment, a one-shot focusing upon Al Capone, Ivan the Terrible, Napoleon Bonaparte, and one of their general comic misadventures. Could be expanded with additional stories over time.


**Author's Note: **Greetings, fellow fan of the _Night at the Museum _franchise! At the moment, this story is a singular one-shot focusing on the three rouges of _NatM 2_ fame, but if I ever decide to post any more _NatM _short ficlet-things I will in all likelihood place them here, so you are more than welcome to add this to your Story Alert if you enjoy what you read. Now, as Teddy would say, onward!

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><p>When one pays a visit to any type of public establishment, it is generally expected that there be some type of refreshments at this place. Whining children and caffeine-starved parents alike cling desperately to this fact, either in hopes of obtaining a sugar-charged soft drink or the extra-large lattes which replace said sodas later in life. And indeed, if there were no havens of this type in those dusty old museums or state parks, imagine what would happen to the fashionably uninterested teenagers! Why, they would have no where to brood over their energy drinks or overly-expensive imported waters while they texted their friends about how stupid their families were being in their sad attempts to engage their adolescent's attention.<p>

In light of such uncompromising facts, the board of the Museum of Natural History decided it would be a good idea to add a Starbucks to the facility. They beat down a frenetic Dr. McPhee frantic over his exhibits being marred by spilled coffees and teas, and to the joy of many patrons (and a night guard who still had trouble with his circadian rhythms) had it up and running within the month.

Of course, the Starbucks had to run all hours the museum was open, as to gain the maximum profit. As such, this included night hours. And as it was open to such a late hour anyway, the board also found it agreeable to provide complimentary drinks to the actors playing the 'living' exhibits- it would make sense that they would need the caffeine most of all, having to be up half the night impersonating historical figures, so they thought.

So they thought wrongly.

Their offer was rarely taken advantage of by anyone except Mr. Daley, the said night guard, who drank enough for three people, with good reason. For a long time he was the only one who did so, until on a dare one of the actors decided to stroll in and down 3 grande mochas in one sitting. The actor, an Italian-looking hothead somewhere around 25, had been watched with a look bordering on apprehension by the two who had given him the dare. A Hun who had walking by saw them standing there looking like a pair of addled fish, and peered into the café to see what was going on. The Hun then came to resemble an addled fish also, and ran off in the opposite direction yelling gosh-knows-what and nearly tripping over his furry boots.

After that, night business picked up. The dark-featured guy that had tipped the domino came by nearly every night, flirting with the baristas until someone shouted something about Mae, sobering him immediately. The other two that had given him the dare followed suit without the flirting, which they would have likely failed at.

So were the circumstances preceding this night in late April, not that different from the rest but interesting simply because of that.

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><p>The three of them were seated in the Starbucks at one of those illogically high tables the chain sometimes employs, each to his own and one of them currently ranting off a soliloquy, which little endeared the rest of the population to them.<p>

Tallest of the three and straight-backed in his seat, Ivan drank his tea black and bare, sipping delicately out of a 600-year-old cup and saucer of Russian porcelain the night guard most certainly did not know he was using. His successor by about 300 years sat to his right, a souvenir mug emblazoned with the French flag cradled in his hands. Napoleon also drank tea, but he preferred his earl gray and with a good bit of cream to take off the bite. Across from the both of them and most isolated physically and mentally was Al Capone, early 20th century monochromatic gangster of high standards and black coffee, who was currently rattling off all the reasons tea was derogative to one's health and coffee rescued said health.

"And _that _is why the cocoa tree will save America!" he finished his tirade over the coffee bean's weight-loss potential with a slap on the table, rattling the silverware.

Ivan was critical, and in his critique he was terrible. "Mmmph." he grunted, somehow granting even that a Russian accent. "Your argument has its points. But in long run it will fail." he lifted his tea and tried to emulate Confucius.

Capone scowled."Well, Ivanovich, where exactly do ya get ya flawed idea that tea's any betta than coffee? They didn't have it in Russia back then, did they?"

"Didn't need to. Only need to look at picture of you in about 10 years. Quite chubby."

"Oh, says you! Dry up!"

Napoleon sniggered in a smug manner, earned a tell-off from Capone for being a puppet, and resolved to improve his English so he could better understand retorts.

"Bear in mind I am only addressing your failed veight-loss theory. The energy, I suppose it provides, because somehow you are always jumping round like fox with indigestion."

Capone found the simile and Ivan's vague dismissal of his extremely correct theory absurd enough not to merit a response. He threw his head back and drank the coffee like a shot, trying to ignore the ignorant pests.

What he _could not_ ignore, however, was Ivan slurping his tea like _he_ was the one with indigestion.

Capone set his cup down and looked at Ivan with distaste, then curled his lip and scoffed, summing up his entire viewpoint in one sentence. "Tea is disgusting."

"No more disgusting than drinking boiled _beans _like you do," Ivan shot back immediately. "You don't even put sugar in that bitter mess! It's so blackh and vile, aachh, I don't see how you drink it. At least the Frenchman sees fit to partake of king's beverage," he sniffed, "Even if he does ruin it by filling it with cream likhe spineless Englishman."

Napoleon glared at Ivan with fury as the monarch happily downed his tea. "Englishman? _Englishman! _You dare compare _me _to ze culture-less English _swine? _Faugh! At least I do not hail from a perennially snowed-in and backward police state where the entire population is half-drunk at any given houer!"

Ivan immediately broke off his slurping.

Capone raised his eyebrows and glanced at Napoleon. "Hey, now, you ain't one to be talkin' about a police state here, small fry."

"_Small fry!"_

"Yeah, it's a good term, denotes your Frenchness and suggests your physical appearance at the same time. We can talk 'croissant' if ya feelin' twisty."

Napoleon had turned a shade of pink off of Crayola's charts and was about to say something nigh unprintable when the atmosphere of the Starbucks was broken by deceptively delicate sound of breaking glass.

Capone, Napoleon, and the barista all turned at once toward Ivan, who had just dropped and broken one of the oldest pieces of porcelain in the museum's possession. But far more unfortunate than that fact was the look he was giving Monsieur Bonaparte.

Ivan, in contrast to Napoleon and most other people, did not flush in extreme anger. He did the exact opposite, paled, and now his severe face had gone even whiter than its blue-blooded usual.

Capone dropped his coffee in a hurry and pushed back his chair, about to duck and run. He had seen a Commie conspiracist insult Russia in front of its former autocrat before and it had taken nearly 5 guys and the woolly mammoth an hour to pull Ivan off the guy, then about 20 lawyers to avoid undue harassment lawsuits.

Capone's evasion was just about one second too late.

Ivan jumped up out of his chair and took the table with him, the assorted drinks and condiments on top of it flying away. He swung his ever-present staff at Napoleon's head, and would have hit him, had not the revolutionary's oversized hat taken the blow and fallen presently into a puddle of liquid. This enraged Napoleon even further past his present point, and the heartbeat he saw an opening took it and tackled Ivan flat in a move that would have made an NFL linebacker jealous. Capone, meanwhile, was doing his best to avoid being stepped upon or kicked in the face whilst simultaneously trying to reach the shelter of the overturned table, which was rolling around on its side like an egg.

Eventually and by some strange mechanism of either horizontal gravity or Napoleon's slight attempts to flee, the fight (along with various French and Russian insults) echoed into Hall B, following its precursors, who had left a very widespread pool of varied beverages all over the Starbucks' floor.

Capone, his fedora half-off, suit stained, tie inexplicably undone, sat sprawled on the floor and staring into the hallway with his mouth open. After a piece, he muttered, "Dang. Crazy fools can fight." then pushed himself laboriously up and started rubbing his back, shaking his head and trudging in the general direction of his exhibit.

Behind him, the hapless barista stared at the mess and sighed, retrieving the mop she kept close at hand.

"Ivan the Terrible, Al Capone, and Napoleon Bonaparte spilling junk all over the floor during _my _shift, for the second time in a week." She grumbled, struggling with the ornery cleaning instrument and nearly tripping over Ivan's scepter. She pursed her lips and blew out slowly. "Those guys get waaay too in-character."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> So this was something I've been working on as a little side-thing/character interaction-thing. I'm not sure if it's that good, I don't really write for Ivan even though I like the guy and Napoleon pretty much faded into the background in a lot of this, but whatever. And if linebacker is an incorrect term in football I also apologize, I fail at all things football-related.  
>And yes, Capone slang again. Dry up, sap, etc. All meanings can be found in the Internet Guide to Jazz Age Slang, which in turn can be found using Google.<p> 


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